


Early days

by Steed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sherlock is germinating, The pusher's tale, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steed/pseuds/Steed
Summary: Coming out of the hospital, feeling like a twat, I guess I just realized that my two weeks with Mister X, was just an aberration. It was a freak error made by the gods or whoever plots out the destinies of people like me. And when I stepped back into my flat that night, I saw that apart from the new lampshade, nothing had really changed. Everything was as before – just as it should be. Angels falling out of the sky into the laps of nobodies like me - that isn’t supposed to happen.Have no beta... :(





	Early days

 

He grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the table and stood. Then he went in his mute way to fetch his battered sports-bag, packed and ready mind, from the bedroom and returned with one arm in the air, wriggling into his pea coat.

I guess I panicked. Before he got to the door I rushed up and tackled him, which sent him crashing into the wall where I managed to pin his shoulders back. His eyes met mine for all of a nanosecond and then I felt his knee bury itself in my crotch, the pain so unbearable that my body doubled over reflexively and on the way down, my chin met his still raised knee. Down on the floor I folded in on myself in agony, my mouth filling with blood and my vision blurring.

I managed to tilt my head up to look at him towering over me. He wasn’t even looking back, but was tipping out a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with my lighter. Then he picked up his bag and walked out of my life forever.

He didn’t take any gear. I’m hoping that maybe I was of some help in his gradual lowering of doses… And his gradual coming to the end of his silent contemplation... How long had he been there – inside his brain? I’ll never know, I suppose. I’ll never hear his speaking voice, and most likely he won’t even remember me and the two weeks I worshipped him.

But I’ll remember him and every second of every day from the moment I clapped eyes on him. What a mug, eh?

It was a quiet day, no punters and no little jobs from Riley. Carol had topped up my tea four or five times at least and I’d read every word in yesterday’s Sun, down to Mystic Meg, and the caff started filling up with the old, smelly geezers coming in for their runny eggs and bacon sarnies. The place quickly turns damp from all the tea brewing and that together with the mixing odours of frying fat and dirty old men chased me out of there.

I stepped onto the pavement, looking up to gage the weather. It was spitting a bit, but looked like it would piss down soon enough. Then I looked across the street and saw a huddled figure by my front door. Someone who displayed all the signs of a fairly desperate punter. Head down, leaning sideways against the brick wall and wearing a hoodie under one of those naval style pea coats.

I crossed over and the closer I got to the guy, the younger he looked. He finally turned his face to me and I swear I lost my breath. It was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in my whole, miserable life. He didn’t move a muscle and just waited while I fished my keys out and opened the door.

-Step into my office.

We climbed the stairs to my gaff and I motioned for him to sit on the futon. I switched on the ugly bare bulb hanging from the ceiling (I’ve since bought a lampshade from Ikea) and continued to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Glancing back into the front room I saw my guest leaning his head against the wall and his long legs sprawled out on the floor. He looked sick. So I decided to feed him up a bit. I don’t even know why. I had some ham, some cheddar and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs that I loaded up on a plate and served to him as if he was the lord of the fucking manor.

He ate half of a Hobnob, but his hand was shaking when he brought the mug of tea to his lips. Jesus; those pink lips. His eyes were slanted and the colour of a sunlit ocean and his skin was white as the driven snow - I kid you not.

I let my eyes run down his body and he gave me a fleeting, but knowing glance. Then I got up and fetched some of my finest junk and a still wrapped syringe, there was no question that it was what he was after. Crouching just in front of him I held the baggie out and asked:

-So can I fuck you for it?

### His face was blank as a Times’ pin crossword and he gave a nod so tiny that I might have missed it if I wasn’t so horny. He reached inside his coat and fished out his own kit that he kept in a plastic hard case for glasses. He handed over the syringe and spoon, shrugged off the coat, pushed the sleeve of his hoodie up and loosely tied a thin, buckled leather strap just over the elbow while not taking his eyes off the baggie. He looked like the kind who knew the exact amount in it and probably the quality as well at a glance. I brought out my lighter and started preparing the hit for him – what was I? His fucking mum?! But I did it, and his eyes lit up as the liquefied heroin slowly filled the syringe. He tightened the [tourniquet](http://www.tourniquet.net/) and held his long, pale arm up to me while I tapped the bubbles out. I must admit I bloody loved doing the honours, finding a good vein between the old marks and pushing in slowly. Pressing down the plunger I watched his hungry face and its transformation into blissful, hazy euphoria. It’s a glorious sight on anyone, but on him it was so hot that I groaned exactly when he did, with his lips parted, lids fluttering and his throat arched back; bared like an offering.

I leaned forward, but he pushed me back.

-Ok. I’ll give you ten minutes, princess.

I went to find my condoms, and then sat and watched him going through the first stage of the high. To me he looked like a dark, slender angel, fallen from grace and full of delicious sinfulness. I know it sounds pompous and that, but the more I looked at him the more I realised that someone like that doesn’t belong in this world – and that him being here with me, was a coincidence of absolutely ridiculous proportions.

Finally I leaned closer again and began undoing his laces, would you believe, and pulled off his Doctor Martens. My miracle-boy was boneless by now, he didn’t stop me, but he didn’t help either. Then I moved on to the hoodie and managed, with a bit of effort, to pull it off over his head.

He was very thin, but his skin was like velvet to touch and as pale and beautiful as the rest of him. How old was he? 16? 17? I pushed him gently to lie down and arranged his upper body on the floor and his pelvis raised on the futon mattress along with those long, long legs. His eyelids opened and closed now and again, but I don’t think he ever looked at me. I undid his jeans and eased them off together with his boxers, and when he lay there, all naked and splayed out and just fucking glorious I didn’t know whether to start praying or fuck him. My cock was aching in my trousers, though. He was very clean and smelled like cheap soap and cigarettes along with the biscuit he’d just had. His cock was mostly limp, but not completely - probably due to being high.

I pulled his knees up and planted each of his feet closer to his arse to open him up. Then I undid my own trousers and pulled out the old cockaroony, stroking it a few times before rolling on a condom. The dark angel underneath me was breathing shallowly, still enjoying the high and I bent down and counted his ribs with my tongue. The taste was like pure sex and I had to bite his nipple a little, which made him gasp and his head loll to the side. His dark brown hair looked wild around his face and his mouth was open.

Now you might think it’s out of order to fuck someone who is strung out like that, but I promise you that a junkie like him definitely prefers it that way. Having some slimy bastard shove his cock up your arse with a clear head must be fucking horrible.

So I had no qualms; just felt like I’d died and gone to heaven, you know? I had been given permission to fuck some sort of higher being, laid out before me like a perfect picture of celestial beauty.

I wasn’t rough with him. I eased myself in and it was just… Bliss. As if I felt myself falling. Which is just exactly what I was doing, of course. Right there on the futon, buried to the hilt in him I was falling in a way I will probably never fall again, sad wanker that I am.

Every time I pushed in he gave a gasp that was breathy and just tinged with an edge from his vocal chords. Like a “Nh”, kind of. I remember it as clear as any Radiohead riff. Almost a groan; almost. Deep, slow, helpless somehow. I took my time and being high out of his mind, he responded in that sluggish, languid way and it nearly drove me insane with just pure lust. I would never compare it with a high, because I have never felt as present and sharp as I did then and every consecutive time I fucked him during those two weeks. Never.

It is testament to my pitiful existence that I still dream about hearing him speak. But it never happened. I understood instinctively that he wasn’t a mute. I’d come home to the flat and call out and he’d be sitting on the sill of my kitchen window, miles away. He just didn’t seem to hear me most of the time. Or that’s not true. He didn’t seem to even notice I was there most of the time, more like.

But I pranced around him like a lovesick fool. I washed his clothes, did the shopping, proffered food, tucked him in like his fucking nan and a lot more with it. But it didn’t feel like a chore. It felt like a fucking honour and I couldn’t believe my luck every time he’d lie back and let me fuck him. I knew that it wouldn’t last and half the time I was with him I was afraid to leave the flat in case he’d vanish while I was out. I spent time shedding actual, manly tears, mourning in advance for when I would no longer have him around.

He knew where I kept the junk and without batting an eye, he just helped himself to it. I noticed though, that he was lowering his doses every day. The weird thing was that it didn’t make him sick or turn him to an irritable prick; he just stayed the same: like he was working on the biggest maths problem in history and couldn’t be disturbed.

Yes; even without hearing him talk I was convinced he was some brilliant prodigy on the run from his upper class evil family because they wouldn’t let him become a concert violinist or something equally tragic. Everything about him made me soppy like that.

Once, but just once, when I offered him some take-away Korma, he looked at me. I mean, really looked. He turned his laser focus on me that one time, probably for less than a minute, and I have never felt like that before or since: dissected, splayed open and in the end found utterly wanting, as they say. Cutting my gonads off would have been kinder and produced the same result.

I spoke to him though, even if in reality it was to myself. In fact I babbled. About my day, my mates, my mum, even. If he’d just told me to shut up. But like I said: he was so far into his contemplation over whatever needed contemplating that I may as well have been part of the furniture.

He had a smallish sports bag; a hold-all which I rooted through once while he was in the shower. It took about two minutes. He had a change of clothes and some underwear, a driver’s licence and a library card in a plastic sleeve, none of which was his obviously, 75 quid and a small note pad that was the saddest thing I had ever seen. It was a crystal clear description of a junkie’s life: Addresses jotted down here and there. A couple of phone numbers. And in between; the raving mad scribbling you can only produce when you’re crazy high or crazy sick. Things written on top of other things, drawings of weird looking animals or myopic, dismembered details of objects, lists of random words written in screaming block capitals. Being a dealer myself and an on and off user to boot, I should know better than to feel mushy about it. But I was completely gone by then, you see. The pain he felt and had felt through every black pen scratch in that note pad made me want to cry.

I have made some bad decisions in my life, and done stuff that I’m not necessarily all that proud of. All of which points to some pretty big holes in my ability to feel empathy. I think most people are idiots and deserve everything they get. If one of Riley’s little jobs entails giving some dick-head a going over for not paying his debts on time, I have no problem with that. I know it’s not a great career choice, but then it seems I am just an idiot like everyone else and deserve the pathetic excuse for a life that I have too.

But my angel; the miracle that was visited upon me: That I most definitely didn’t deserve.

The last time I approached him for sex after his fix, he hardly even looked high. Fucking him then - now that was well out of order. He was lucid and clearly unwilling, but to my shame I couldn’t help myself. I knew perfectly well that he was weening himself off the heroin, which is not an easy thing to do, and needed to be able to stay with me a little longer. So he wasn’t in a position to refuse. Not yet. But I also knew he would be leaving very soon and the thought made me feel cold inside.

He finally lay on his front on the bed, rigid and with his face pressed into a pillow while I fucked him like the slimy bastard I am.

Afterwards though, looking at him, it was like it never happened. I felt like a shit, but he just went back to smoking cigarettes, sitting on the kitchen window sill and ignoring me. And two days after that, he left.

And so there I was. My flat looked extra squalid and for the first couple of weeks I scoured the markets for trinkets - and cushions for the futon for fuck’s sake! That’s when I found the Ikea lamp shade for the bulb in my front room, by the way. Then after that I got drunk and stayed drunk for another week. The week after that I pathetically tried to cut my wrists which just led to an embarrassing visit to King’s College Hospital. Coming out of there, feeling like a twat, I guess I just realized that my two weeks with Mister X, was just an aberration. It was a freak error made by the gods or whoever plots out the destinies of people like me. And when I stepped back into my flat that night I saw that apart from the new lampshade, nothing had really changed. Everything was as before – just as it should be. Angels falling out of the sky into the laps of nobodies like me - that isn’t supposed to happen.


End file.
